


Will Nature Make a Man of Me Yet

by thefilmmakerandsongwriter



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Enjolras failing at horseback riding, Grantaire looks adorable in cowboy boots, M/M, also some porn, it's all zoe's fault okay, there might be some angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:29:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefilmmakerandsongwriter/pseuds/thefilmmakerandsongwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I am a cynical idealist." - F. Scott. Fitzgerald</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Please take shoes off before entering._  
 _Listen carefully, and let the silence heal you._  
Enjolras slides out of his Doc Martens, and considers knocking, but doesn’t know if that would go against the second rule printed on the doormat. The house is a two-story yellow colonial, with a white trim that looks like cake frosting. Its closest neighbors are the paper mill 20 miles down the dusty road, and the lone scarecrow sitting in the middle of the open yard, whose hay stuffing is visible through the holes picked through by birds.  
He briefly considers running after the taxi that dropped him off in this crap-hill, bad joke of a Midwestern town. He already misses his one-bedroom, walkup apartment in Greenwich Village with a passion. As he toes the dust along the wooden porch, standing upon the edges of indecision, he recalls a night a few months back, in his apartment with Courfeyrac.  
Enjolras doesn’t typically make life decisions at 3 am, while tipsy on cheap beer. This was one of the rare occasions. The two men had just taken their last final that day, and bought a six-pack to celebrate. Although both typically considered themselves above all the immature behavior of their counterparts, who dressed in the paraphernalia of their respective fraternities and participated in keg drinking contests , puking all over the front lawn the next day, it was the end of their senior year and they figured they would live the college life for one night.  
So Enjolras and Coufeyrac lounged in deck chairs atop Enjolras’ apartment complex, chugging Budweiser, contemplating future plans with a chaotic excitement, riding high on alcohol and graduation euphoria.  
“You know Enj,” Courfeyrac said with a vindictive gleam in his eye, which should have alerted Enjolras that he was up to something, “you claim to want to create change in the world, help the working class, organize social movements, and all these other grand schemes, but tell me, have you ever spent a day working in your life?  
Enjolras chewed back a retort. He had spent many a day and night laboring over textbooks and essays and even managed a small, grassroots non-profit off campus. However he had never actually had to earn money to make a living before.  
“I guess not,” he said with a drunken honesty, perturbed by his lack of experience and abundance of privilege.  
“I bet you couldn’t if you tried,” Courfeyrac said, provoking him to anger. Enjolras didn’t know what Courfeyrac’s game was. A vague feeling that Courfeyrac wanted him to be pissed off stirred in the back of his muddled head, but he gave into the emotion anyway.  
Courfeyrac could sense Enjolras slipping, and continued his goading, “Rich daddy’s boy pretends to understand the struggle, but really the only time he’s witnessed class warfare is through a history book.”  
The beer can’s metal dimpled around Enjolras fingertips, his grip was so tight. “Fine,” he tried to keep his voice level, to little success, “I’ll get a fucking job.”  
“As a barista in a snooty coffee shop on campus? Clearly that will expose you to the oppression of the underclass.” Courfeyrac grinned wickedly. Enjolras knew that look. That was the same look Courfeyrac wore when he convinced Enjolras to steal the Dean of Students’ Yorkshire terrier. And the time he told Enjolras that Bahorel’s bong was a physics experiment and they needed him to test it out for them. And the time he let a confused and high Enjolras skinny dip in the fountain on main campus in broad daylight.  
Enjolras knew that look meant one thing: trouble. Specifically, trouble for him.  
“You know Feuilly’s cousin owns a farm in Northern Michigan. Says they’re in need of summer help. If you really want to work in economic reform and social justice, maybe you should go experience some minimum wage hard labor first hand.” Courfeyrac was a smooth salesman, hitting all Enjolras’ insecurities. No it wasn’t his fault he grew up rich. Yes he still felt guilty about it, particularly given the career path he had chosen. And what if Courfeyrac was right? Real activists didn’t need to go to brand name colleges to rack up a few degrees. Real activists were out there in the real world.  
Enjolras crushed the beer can in his hand. “Give me Feuilly’s number, I’ll set it up.”  
Now Enjolras wishes he could go back in time and punch his drunken fool self in the face for agreeing to such a plan. Weeks and then finally days leading up to his departure, Courfeyrac kept offering him a way out of the deal, but Enjolras heard the challenge in his voice and read the same in his eyes and promised that no, he would see it out. As Enjolras silently curses his stupidity, there is a commotion from within the house, and moments later the weathered wooden door springs open, revealing a man who appears to be Enjolras’ age, dressed in thick flannel, jeans with holes in them that weren’t there when they came off the rack at Levi’s, and _holy hell actual cowboy boots_. This has to be a joke, Enjolras thinks, more of the same bad redneck décor to freak out the city guy.  
However, when the man opens his mouth to speak, there’s no mistaking his country accent, thicker on the vowels and swallowing all the consonants in his cherry red mouth, “My name’s Grantaire. You must be the new guy from New York,” he pronounces the name of Enjolras’ beloved city like there’s a foul odor in the air.  
“Yep that’s me.”  
Grantaire doesn’t offer his hand for Enjolras to shake, just eyes him up and down, a slow sweep starting from Enjolras sock feet, to his slightly too-tight skinny jeans, and ironic graphic t-shirt. His lip curls in disdain, like Enjolras is a cockroach in expensive clothing.  
“Well don’t just stand there Grantaire, let the boy in!” An older, athletic looking lady bustles into view. She smacks Grantaire out of the way with a thrust of her hip, and offers her hand to Enjolras, who is surprised by her firm grip. There are streaks of grey mixed into her honey-blonde hair, and her smile is warmer than a summer afternoon.  
“I think we spoke on the phone. My name’s Eloise, I’m Feuilly’s cousin. We’re so glad to have you here; we need all the help we can get!”  
Enjolras supposes not everyone shares the sentiment, because Grantaire exhales loudly, and retreats into the house. Enjolras follows suit, after Eloise’s beckoning hand, and feels his chest expand with relief at the sight of a normal interior decorations. There are no taxidermied animals hanging from the walls, no hunting rifles in view, and a bookshelf catches his eye and makes his heart leap into his throat. He steps closer to examine the titles, and flushes with glee at finding This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald, as one of the novels in the first row. He lets his fingers brush over the bruised spine of his favorite novel, and is startled by Grantaire standing over his shoulder.  
“I’m more of a Hemingway fan myself,” he says in an off-hand manner, picking up a well-worn copy of The Sun Also Rises off the shelf, rifling through the pages with familiarity. Enjolras accepts this revelation that farmers in the middle of nowhere do, in fact, participate in the enjoyment of classic literature.  
Maybe Grantaire reads the surprise on Enjolras’ face, because he tears the book out of Enjolras’ hand and places it back on the shelf. “Come on, grab your crap and I’ll show you your room. We’ve got work to do before the sun goes down.”  
Enjolras internally winces at Grantaire’s abrasive manner, wondering what he has done to already make his housemate hate him, but follows him obediently up a narrow staircase, lugging his suitcase behind him. It clunks against each wooden step, and Grantaire turns back and glares at Enjolras every time his suitcase connects with another stair.  
At last they reach the top, where the hallway splits off into three rooms, two bedrooms and what Enjolras assumes is a bathroom. Grantaire kicks open the door to the first room on the right, revealing sparse furnishings; two single beds, a wooden desk that looks like it was refurbished from piece of a barn, a nightstand with an alarm clock between them, and a Bob Marley poster looking strangely out of place. Enjolras opens the closet to find clothes already folded inside. Grantaire flops down on one of the beds, crosses his arms behind his neck, and stares at Enjolras with a blue-eyed intensity that makes him shiver.  
“You can move some of my clothes aside,” he says flippantly.  
“Your clothes-” and then it hits him. This surly, antagonistic man is his roommate for the next two months.  
Right then and there, Enjolras misses his home with hopeless ferocity.  
“Bed closest to the window is already taken,” Grantaire helpfully informs him, and with an exaggerated sigh, he gets up and walks to the door. The last thing he says before closing it definitively behind him is, “don’t take forever, city boy, the chickens haven’t been fed yet.”


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as Grantaire leaves the room, Enjolras whips out his cell phone and dials Courfeyrac’s number.

After the sixth ring, the bastard finally picks up, and Enjolras hears a sleepy, “’’ello?”

“ Courfeyrac, ”he hisses, letting desperation seep into his voice,“ I can’t do this. My roommate is a total disaster. He already hates me, and I have no idea why, and this whole thing was a huge mistak-“

“Hold on one sec Enj.”

Enjolras hears Courfeyrac murmuring, and then a higher-pitched, female voice saying, “Who’s on the phone? Can’t you call him back we’re kinda busy right now,” he can practically hear the pout of the mystery woman’s lips, and her little ass wiggle.

“Hey Enj? Gonna need to call you back.”

“Whatever, dick.” Enjolras says, but the receiver has already gone dead.

Feeling even more alone than he did before, Enjolras begins unpacking the few personal items he brought with him. After some exploration it becomes apparent he has forgotten his phone charger. Cursing audibly, Enjolras thinks it would be a miracle if there was an Iphone charger on this farm, but decides it’s worth checking.  He opens the drawers of the desk, surprised to find more books: an anthology of poetry by Pablo Neruda, a guide to sustainable green farming, and at the bottom of the pile, a photo album. Glancing over his shoulder to the open door, he lifts the heavy, leather bound scrapbook, carefully so as no loose pages fall out. Upon opening the first dusty page, a scent of cigar smoke and alpine forest wafts through the air. The first page shows a picture of, Enjolras realizes, startled, a young Eloise. Her hair is longer and blonder, tossed over one shoulder.  She’s not looking at the camera, but instead at a young man with ink-black hair standing next to her.  She’s covering part of her mouth like she’s laughing at something the man said, and he has one arm slung lazily over her shoulder, head thrown back, smile warm and genuine even through the old photograph. The caption below it reads _Picture Rock, 1980_. Enjolras, enraptured by the handsome couple (he assumes they’re a couple, although wonders where the man is now) flips to the next page and nearly drops the book in surprise. It’s a double page feature of baby photos. The caption underneath the first one of a chubby toddler, with the same black hair as the man on the previous page, reads _November 20 th, 1991 Grantaire took his first steps today_. Enjolras stares intently at the child, trailing his eyes over the ink-splotch hair, already thick and wild, and grinning, dimpled face, thinking it bears little resemblance the grouchy man who just left the room. The next page, however, is filled with the same sort of captions. _Grantaire plays with the dog. Grantaire goes on his first hay ride_. The book chronicles Grantaire up until he’s ten or so, and then stops abruptly. Enjolras flips through the rest of the pages, at least a half of the book, but they’re all empty. As he stands up to put the album away, a single dried rose falls out, landing on his kneecap. Enjolras pinches it delicately between two fingers. The flower feels more intimate than any of Grantaire’s childhood photos, and Enjorlas fears he is stepping into territory he shouldn’t.

A shout from downstairs startles him out of his reverie. “Enjolras! Are you done packing yet sweetie?”

It’s Eloise. Enjolras glows red with guilt as he hastily stuffs the rose back in the plastic sleeves of the album, and heaves the book back into the drawer along with all the others. Trying to assume a neutral facial expression, he goes downstairs.

“In here.” Eloise is seated at a circular dining table in what Enjolras deduces from the stovetop and refrigerator, is the kitchen. Through the screen door he can see a wide expanse of land stretching until a dark line of trees in the distance.

Eloise takes a sip of tea. She has her knees drawn to her chest in a rather girlish pose that defies her age, and motions for him to sit down. Enjolras complies, taking the seat opposite her, and steels himself before looking her in the eyes. He feels like by opening the photo album he has somehow betrayed this woman by tramping through her memories with careless abandon.

“Don’t look so nervous, hon,” she says, misreading the emotion on his face, “you said over the phone you’ve never worked on a farm before, but I’m sure you’re a quick learner.” Her smile eases some of the tension in Enjolras’ and he musters a half-grin back.

“There are just a few guidelines I want to go over with you...” Enojras tries to listen intently as Eloise outlines what an average day will look like, however all he can think about his the photograph of the young woman upstairs. Eloise has retained much of the same character, but there’s weariness in her posture now that disagrees with her youthful nature.  

“...and on Sundays we go into town to the market, so you can get to the bank and run personal errands then. Now that’s about it. I believe Grantaire is waiting for you by the barn,” she points her finger in the direction of a building in the distance, “he wants to take you on a tour of the fields before the sun goes down, so you’d best hurry.”

Enjolras sincerely doubts Grantaire wants to take him anywhere, but he thanks Eloise and gets up from the table.

As his Docs squelch in the muddy damp of the backyard, Enjolras regrets wearing such unpractical clothing. True to Eloise’s word, Grantaire is standing by the barn, feeding the aforementioned chickens. He straightens up as Enjolras nears, the side of his mouth curving downwards. He shuts the coop with more force than would seem necessary.

“You look absolutely ridiculous, city boy.” Grantaire says flatly.

Enjolras shrugs. He cannot disagree.

“We’ll have to get you some different clothes,” Grantaire says as if Enjolras is a child who can’t dress himself, “and some sensible shoes.”

“What like your cowboy boots?”

Grataire’s lips twitch upwards at the mention of his boots, and he says “Nah. No way you could wear them as well as me.”

Before Enjolras has a chance to retort, Enjolras is leading him into the darkness of the barn, where he hears the shuffling of large animals. The smell of horse shit rings through his nostrils, and he gags.

“Have you ever ridden a horse before?”

“Once in Central Park?” he chokes out through his constricting throat.

Enjolras is pretty sure he hears Grantaire laugh. The single bare bulb flicks on and Enjolras finds himself surrounded on both sides by the detestable creatures, which eye him dolefully.  

“I don’t think I can ride one of these-“ but Grantaire is already leading a sleek, caramel-and-cream colored horse out of the stable, and handing her bridle over to Enjolras. He takes the worn leather in his hand, unsure of what to do next.

“Her name is Brett.” Grantaire informs him.

“Brett…like Lady Brett Ashley?” _What kind of person names a horse after a drunken British socialite in a Hemingway novel?_

“So you do read good literature after all.” Grantaire says, and without warning, grips Enjolras tightly by the waist and lifts him into the saddle.

“Hey! Holy shit!” Enjolras exclaims. Now Grantaire is chuckling, rubbing Brett’s noise affectionately.

“Start off at a canter, don’t think you’re ready for anything faster yet. Brett has done this walk thousands of times, so you won’t need to give her much direction. I’ll be right behind you two.”

Enjolras’ plea for Grantaire not to leave him alone with the beast is cut off by the motion of Brett moving beneath him. He quickly snaps his mouth closed for fear of biting off his own tongue. They aren’t going very fast, but the motion sends him bouncing up and down in the saddle. A few moments later Grantaire trots past on a big, black stallion, whose mane matches the shade and unruliness of Grantaire’s mop of hair.

Grantaire rides like he’s been doing this since he was a kid. It is as much of a natural reflex for him as it is completely foreign to Enjolras. Without glancing back, Grantaire jumps the fence and gallops off into the distance. Enjolras nudges Brett after him, and it’s like his foot suddenly turned a gear in the animal or something because she shoots off after them, leaving Enjolras clinging for his life.

Two summers back, Courfeyrac, Comberferre, and Enjolras rented motorcycles while they were at Courfeyrac’s family cabin in upstate New York. Enjolras hadn’t been nearly as frightened to ride that shiny metal deathtrap as he was now on Brett. Up ahead, he can see Grantaire halt to a stop before another fence, and he uncertainly yanks back on Brett’s bridle, and she snorts in indignation at him.

“Sorry,” he mutters to the horse, and she doesn’t respond.

 “Took you long enough,” Grantaire says, gracefully dismounting.

Enjolras tries to copy Grantaire’s fluid motion, but somehow his foot gets stuck in the cinchy thingy and he topples over, falling to the ground with a loud thud. Embarrassed, he staggers upright, and dons the most dignified expression he can muster, like he planned his dismount that way.

“You’re really hopeless aren’t you?” Grantaire asks, leaning against the fence, which is made of uneven stakes of all different kinds of wood.

“Why not just give up on me?” he half-jokes, knowing Grantaire has probably thought about it.

“One of the greatest mysteries of the universe,” he says bitingly, and hops over the fence.

“You coming?”

 _Why the hell are country people so damn athletic_ , Enjolras thinks as he awkwardly swings one long leg over, and then the other. He groans internally as he realizes it’s an uphill walk to wherever Grantaire is leading him.

“The irrigation on this farm is pretty damn cool,” Grantaire says as he strides forward and Enjolras jogs to catch up with him, “Michigan summers are pretty dry, so to prevent drought we have a nifty little system set up that starts at the top of this hill. My father and I engineered it when I was 15.”

It is the first personal information Grantaire has offered, and Enjolras bites back the urge to ask him where his father is now.

Instead he asks, “Where on earth did you learn to ride a horse so well?” sensing it is a spot of pride of the young man.

When Grantaire smiles, its free of scorn. “My mother taught me. She did a lot of rodeos when I was younger, and when I got older, I did them with her.”

Enjolras tries to reconcile this image of a hale, young rodeo girl with the image of the older woman sitting back at the farmhouse. “Eloise did?”

Grantaire’s smile slips off his face. “Eloise isn’t my mother,” before Enjolras can ask him to elaborate, Grantaire pulls him to a stop.  At the top of the hill, Enjolras can see the entirety of the land the farm encompasses. He begrudgingly admits it’s beautiful. The grass gleams golden as the setting sun grazes over the hilly terrain, and past a dark ridge of forest Enjolras makes out chilling blue which extends into the horizon. The mingling of the sky and the water gives the illusion that Enjolras and Grantaire are standing on the edge of the earth. It takes his breath away; the maps in his history book don’t do the Great Lakes justice.

“We’ll be plowing this upper field tomorrow. The lower ones have already been plowed and are ready for planting, which we’ll do later in the week.”

Enjolras nods but doesn’t absorb the information, still taking in the landscape. Grantaire gauges his reaction, and finally tugs at his sleeve.

“We should head back. Don’t want to make Eloise wait for us.”

“Right,” Enjolras finally tears his eyes away from the scene, to Grantaire’s face. The light of the sunset brings his cheekbones into sharp contrast with the boyishness of his round face, and Enjolras realizes for the first time that Grantaire is quite good looking.

“What are you staring at, city boy, get back on Brett and ride.”

Grantaire takes off running down the hill, an unnecessary display of physical prowess, Enjolras thinks, and with a bounding leap lands in the stallion’s saddle. He doesn’t wait for Enjolras before setting off back in the direction of the farmhouse, a trail of dust rising behind him. 


	3. Chapter 3

Dinner is glorious. Enjolras has always thought New York City was the cultural food hub of the world, but he reforms his opinion as soon as he sits down at Eloise’s dining table.

“Everything on the table was grown on this farm,” she says proudly.

Enjolras feels like he’s in a fairytale.  He watches as Eloise heaps a mountain of food onto his plate- okra, roast beef, mashed potatoes- until he feels his stomach flop over like a contented dog, wagging its tail and barking. Even Grantaire looks happy, kissing Eloise on the cheek. Enjolras feels like he finally understands how the Greek gods on Mount Olympus can live off the scent of cooked food. Eloise uncorks a bottle of Merlot, and winks at the boys.  Grantaire is about to take a bite of the feast, but Eloise swats his wrist and he reluctantly puts the loaded fork down.

“I may be serving spirits at dinner, but that doesn’t mean I’m too much of a heathen to say grace beforehand,” she says, laughing heartily. Grantaire rolls his eyes, and reluctantly takes Eloise’s proffered hand. Enjolras does the same on the other side. As Eloise sends her thanks to the above Grantaire feigns complete disinterest. Enjolras isn’t exactly religious either, enough years around disaffected hipsters in New York City have robbed him of his previous piety, yet he wonders what Grantaire’s deal is.

Eloise finishes her prayer and releases both men to devour her cooking. Partway through the meal, just when Enjolras has decided this summer won’t be so bad after all, the landline rings. Eloise stands up and indicates Enjolras and Grantaire should keep eating, and disappears into the hall.

A moment later, she sticks her head around the corner, and beckons Grantaire to come.

He gets up and takes the phone from Eloise, who dashes back to the table, her expression troubled. Enjolras isn’t too blissed out to read the discomfort on her face.  Before he can ask what’s wrong, he hears the phone slamming back into the receiver, and Grantaire stomps back into the kitchen, hair flying upwards as if he’s been pulling on it.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was her calling?”

Eloise crosses her arms and assumes a defensive stance, like she’s dancing with a bull. “Because I knew you wouldn’t answer if I told you.”

 “I told you I never want to speak to her again.” Grantaire’s words sound petty to Enjolras’ ears, but he hears a depth of raw emotion in them that has been previously lacking in all his short, glib responses.

“You have to talk to her Grantaire, she’s your sister. You two are family.”

“You have no right to tell me that,” Grantaire says, his voice pissed and low, “What do you know?”

“Don’t you dare disrespect me young man,” Eloise stands up and although she’s a good foot shorter than Grantaire, her presence is one to be reckoned with.

Grantaire senses it, and huffs out an indignant breath. Rather than rising to the challenge, he grabs the entire bottle of wine off the table, and storms out of the room.

 As soon as he is gone, Eloise’s posture slackens. She collapses back into her chair, and takes a long sip from her glass. “Sorry about that,” she says to Enjolras, “you’ll learn quickly that we’re a pretty dysfunctional bunch.”

“I totally understand,” Enjolras says empathetically, although to him it seems the injuries in this family run deeper than most, “I had no idea Grantaire had a sister.”

“Well how would you?” Eloise asks.

Enjolras’ face flushes red as he thinks back to the photo album.

“He doesn’t talk about her much. Actually, not at all, as you can probably tell.” Eloise drains her glass, and begins clearing the table.

“Let me help you with that,” Enjolras says, taking an armful of dirty plates from the woman.  Doing dishes, unlike horseback riding, is an activity he can accomplish with some amount of competency.

Eloise relents. She loosens the ponytail from the back of her head, and lets her gold and grey ringlets cascade down her back. She looks worn through, and Enjolras coaxes her to leave the cleaning in his hands.

“You’re a doll,” she says, thanking him with a pat on the cheek.

Once alone, and elbow deep in suds, Enjolras’ mind wanders to Grantaire. Grantaire, the enigma wrapped in a gorgeous, derisive, misanthropic shell. How is it he’s only been here a day, yet he’s done and seen more than 6 months at college. It’s not like Enjolras didn’t enjoy his classes, or the planned dorm trips to Broadway, or the eclectic clutter of people in his apartment complex, it was just old news to him.  Most people who live in New York long enough don’t even look up at the skyscrapers anymore. They live in a thriving center of human civilization, in a constant state of detachment. In a single day, Enjolras’ disaffection has been turned into keen interest; all centered around one particular stallion-riding, cowboy boot-wearing, Hemingway-reading, surly boy.

Enjolras dries off with a dish towel, and heads up the stairs quietly, listening for sounds from his shared room. Nothing. So he gently prods open the door. Nobody is inside. He could have sworn he heard Grantaire marching upstairs.  He looks all around the room, and that’s when the open window catches his eye.

Perched on the roof, empty bottle of red wine rolling around next to him, cigarette held between two fingers, is Grantaire. In the pale, crescent moon, half his face is illuminated, while the rest is obscured in shadow. Enjolras is compelled to walk towards him, even though he figures Grantaire could use some space right now. But there’s something magnetic about the boy on the rooftop, and it isn’t until he’s clambering over the windowsill that Enjolras asks, “mind if I join?”

Grantaire looks over like he hasn’t heard Enjolras approaching. From his eyes and his breath, Enjolras can tell he is drunk, and so when he slurs his agreement, Enjolras is grateful for the solidarity sobriety seems to prevent.

Grantaire offeres him a pack of American Spirits and his Zippo, which has the outline of a Pheonix etched on the dented metal.

“I don’t smoke,” he informs Grantaire.

“Your loss,” Grantaire replies, taking another drag on his cigarette.

They sit in companionable silence.  Enjolras feels a heaviness in the tangy evening air, and his chest constricts inexplicably against some crushing weight.

“You know,” he voices after a few minutes, “I will take you up on that cigarette.”

Enjolras has never done drugs before, aside from alcohol, which he waited until he was legal to do. His health has been one of his only vanities. Enjolras eats like a gluten-intolerant vegan mother and exercises like a fiend. His lungs are his pride and joy, second only to his defined abs, but one day in Petoskey, Michigan, has changed all that.

Grantaire slides a Spirit from the pack and hands it to Enjolras, who holds it like a delicate bird bone between his fingers. Grantaire leans in, and Enjolras is so alarmed at the sudden physical proximity he thinks for a delirious moment Grantaire is going to kiss him. The scent of pine trees and alcohol washes over Enjolras as Grantaire presses the cherry end of his cigarette to the unlit end of Enjolras’.

Enjolras inhales, splutters, than inhales again.

“God that’s awful.”

Grantaire laughs a hollow, aching laugh, and flicks ash onto the rooftop. He’s sitting much too close to the edge, Enjolras thinks, his feet are dangling over the flimsy rain gutter.

“Is there anything you can do correctly?” He asks Enjolras, who is stung by his words.

“I graduated first in my class from Columbia’s school international and public affiars,” he responds tartly, instantly regretting his words as soon as they came out of his mouth.   
“Ohh shit, Esquire, so sorry, didn’t mean to offend.” Grantaire spits out the words around the edges of his cigarette, embers sparking in the darkness.

“No I’m sorry that came out a lot douchebag-ier than I intended.”

“Figures. Only pretentious dicks like Fitzgerald.”

Enjolras rounds on Grantaire. “Uh-uh. Insult me, my clothes, my incompetence, whatever, but you do not insult my man F. Scott.”

“All his characters are like oh look, poor me, I’m rich and spoiled and don’t know what to do with all my money. Life is so hard.” Grantaire spits off the edge of the roof.

“Not true. His stories are about disillusionment, and the unraveling of the American Dream.”

Grantaire stubs his cigarette out on the shingles. “Last year, Eloise and I officially fell under the poverty line for household income. And we’re the lucky ones; the depression didn’t even hit us that hard. There are people in this country who are actually starving. I don’t see what’s so fucking difficult about having a ton of money.”

“And as for Columbia,” he says, looking Enjolras dead in the eye, “tell me if you’ve learned one goddamn thing in that school about what’s going on out here. In the real world. Where the real people and real jobs are.”

“College teaches you a lot-“

“Stop evading my question.”

Enjolras bites back a frustrated sigh. “How would you know what  you learn in college if you’ve never been?”

“Oh I’ve been.”

Enjolras doesn’t quite believe his ears, but Grantaire is staring at him dead on now.

“I was one year behind you. Columbia class of 2012.”

If he were in a cartoon, Enjolras would be picking his jaw off the rooftop.

“Didn’t think a farm boy in the middle of nowhere Michigan would have the brains to go Ivy League, did you? Well I was smart. I just didn’t care for it. But my parents worked damn hard to put my sister and I through school. We took out all sorts of loans, applied for a bunch of grants, and Columbia accepted both me and her, although they granted her a full ride.

My freshman year was the dullest year of my entire life. I listened to professors talking out of their ass about subjects that I knew wouldn’t ever affect me, while everyone else was oh-so enraptured. So at the end of the year, when my father died, I returned to the family farm. Said I would help my mom pay off all our debts, because I knew she couldn’t run that place all by herself. Turns out I couldn’t either…” Grantaire trails off, and Enjolras prompts him.

“Couldn’t what?”

Grantaire takes another cigarette, lights it, and inhales sharply, like he can take back his words, but they’re already tumbling forth, “Turns out I couldn’t run an entire farm by myself. My mother was no help.   She fell deep into the bottle that year, and couldn’t claw her way back out. So she left too, to some institution in Arizona where they let her write a letter about once a year. Not that I read any of them.”

“And Eloise?” Enjolras asks softly.

“She was a friend of my dad’s. She sold her farm in Saginaw and came up North to stay with me.”

Grantaire exhales all the air and smoke stored in his lungs in one great breath. Enjolras’ mind is reeling, and he unsure of what to say, finally musters an “I’m so sorry.”

“For what? It’s not like any of it is your fault.”

Enjolras grinds the heel of his palm against the jagged roof shingles. Grantaire is not the sort of person who appreciates pity, and probably reads most attempts at compassion as such.

“Then I’m sorry for thinking you didn’t know what college was like. Because what you described, the whole students acting like hypnotized cult followers, and none of it applying to what’s real, I get that. I recognize it. But I partake in drinking the Kool-aid, just like everyone else.”

Grantaire looks at him intently, his eyes burning a blue fire. “Why do you do it?”

“Because I don’t know what else to do.”

It’s a cop out answer and both of them know it.   
Grantaire turns back out towards the edge of the roof to face the moon. He drags on his cigarette, while Enjolras’ has fallen into the gutter, forgotten.

“Maybe you’ll figure it out while you’re here.”

 


End file.
